Five Times Aramis Told Athos He Loved Him (And One Time Athos Made His
by ponygirl72
Summary: Does exactly what it says on the tin (though within the framework of friendship, not slash). Written for the kinkmeme prompt "Five times Aramis told Athos he loves him and one time Athos finally declared his feelings to him". OP kindly indulged my inclination to write it as BroT3/BroT4 friendship instead of Athos/Aramis romance.


**Five Times Aramis Told Athos He Loved Him (And One Time Athos Made His Own Feelings Clear)**

**I.**

The hot summer sun was setting behind the high walls of the garrison, leaving the atmosphere heavy and humid. Athos had retreated to a seat leaning against the bottom of the steps leading up to the Captain's office, bottle in hand. His newfound place amongst the regiment helped fill the void within his soul, but it was this part of the day- when duties were done and there was once again time and space to _think_\- that old ghosts began to rise.

Athos was midway through an attempt to drink those ghosts into troubled submission when the clattering of hooves at the gate roused him, and he raised bleary eyes to the somewhat tattered and forlorn group returning from patrol.

The musketeers alit from their mud-spattered, sweat-lathered mounts with a litany of heartfelt groans and curses. Stable boys scrambled forward to relieve them of their horses, freeing the men to wander, grumbling, toward the barracks or the mess.

Wishing to spare the others his near-constant bad humour, Athos had not made any real attempts to socialise with his fellow soldiers. Given that fact, coupled with his unobtrusive position in the lengthening shadows, he was somewhat startled when one of the bedraggled returnees slid down to the ground next to him with a grunt.

He studied the man, who was slightly younger than him, with dancing eyes and a handsome face marred by a blossoming bruise on one side of his jaw. His boots and his fashionable hat were caked in drying mud; the ruined feather on the latter drooping pitifully.

"Rough patrol?" Athos asked him, as a way to fill the silence.

The newcomer released an unexpected huff of pleasant laughter, at odds with the sullen grimness displayed by the rest of the company.

"Let us just say," he replied, "that a hot summer day, a sweltering marsh, and an organised ring of poachers with an extensive knowledge of booby traps do not come together to form the most salubrious mixture."

Athos winced, but was entirely unable to repress his own snort of amusement at the mental picture. "I can only imagine."

The other man stuck out a hand. "Aramis, at your service. I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

Athos shook Aramis' hand with a firm grip. "Athos. And you look like a man who could use a drink."

He held out the half-empty bottle of wine with a raised eyebrow.

"Well met, Athos," said Aramis, taking the bottle and toasting him with it theatrically, "You know, I do believe I'm in love."

**II.**

"This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," Athos said flatly. "And with companions like you, that's truly saying something."

Aramis smiled cheerfully as Athos rearranged the petticoats under his voluminous skirt for the dozenth time and twitched the hood of his cloak further forward, casting his face into shadow.

"As plans go," he said, "I will admit that it lacks a certain polish. Still, needs must... and you do cut a charming figure as a lady, if I say so myself."

Athos grumbled an inaudible reply as oblivious Parisians milled around them. Just at that moment, Aramis caught Porthos' signal from the corner of his eye. He nodded in reply, and the big man melted back into the crowd.

"Time for our diversion?" Athos asked quietly, instantly snapping back behind a mask of professionalism.

"Indeed so," Aramis murmured under his breath. "Play along, and then slap me. Please note that I did say 'slap', and not 'punch', mind you."

"I'll try to remember," Athos replied with that peculiar brand of bone-dry humour which he employed so effectively.

With that not-particularly-reassuring reassurance, Aramis moved back half a step, removing his hat with a flourish and sweeping Athos' silk-gloved hand to his lips for a courtly kiss.

"Madame," he cried, loud enough to attract the attention of all those in their immediate vicinity, "surely you cannot mean to spurn me so publicly! Have I not proven, over and over, the depth of my love for you?"

Athos tugged his hand backwards in a convincing display of offence, emitting a series of somewhat less convincing high-pitched squeaks of displeasure as Aramis failed to relinquish it. By now, onlookers were gathering around them, gawking.

"Surely my heart will break in two!" Aramis said, laying it on thick. "You choose him over me? A penniless bricklayer who smells of cheap whorehouses? Your husband can never please you in the ways that I do, my petite flower!"

There was a collective gasp from their impromptu audience as Athos finally wrenched his hand free, palm impacting Aramis' cheek with a startling icrack/i.

"Ow," Aramis said, staring at his companion balefully.

Athos shrugged. "You wanted it to look real," he answered, unrepentant.

Shouts erupted behind Athos and off to his left, drawing the crowd's attention away from them. Both men whirled to see if they were needed by their fellow Musketeer, Athos stumbling a bit over his skirts. Porthos met their eyes long enough to give them a wink and a negative shake of his head before manhandling the captured assassin through the crowd, toward the wagon waiting to haul him off to the Châtelet.

"Nice distraction, you two," he rumbled as he passed them with the prisoner. "He never even saw me coming."

Aramis smiled, then winced, lifting a hand to his jaw.

Athos looked at him sideways, eyebrow raised. "Apologies, my friend. I hadn't intended to do any permanent damage."

Porthos chuckled, not turning around. "Oh, don't apologise," he said. "Our Aramis adores that quality in a woman."

"What? Masculinity?" Athos called after his retreating back.

"No... violence."

**III.**

"S-some people d-don't have a speck of c-common courtesy," Aramis managed around chattering teeth, as Porthos briskly removed his sodden clothing.

"I shoulda thrashed 'em," the big man growled. "You nearly drown saving that little girl from the river, an' they drive off without offering so much as a blanket... or a word of thanks!"

Aramis attempted a philosophical shrug, but the effect was lost amidst a full body shudder.

"Also, you're an idiot," Porthos continued. "If that tiny slip of a lass fell through the ice, of course you were going to, as well."

"Th-that's what the r-rope was f-for. It w-worked, d-didn't it?" Aramis replied, attempting to ignore the way his wet braies were freezing into solidity even as Porthos fumbled with the ties. Merciful God, he was cold. How could flesh be this cold and still live?

Athos appeared in his peripheral vision, carrying their saddle blankets and bedrolls under one arm and several broken tree branches under the other.

"To be fair," their leader said evenly, "Aramis is the lightest. It made sense for him to go."

Athos arranged the saddle blankets over the thin layer of snow on the ground and wrapped Aramis, now naked, in a rough blanket before guiding him down to crouch stiffly on the layer of thick felt, covered with horse hair. Aramis could dimly perceive that the material still carried a hint of warmth from the large animals, but his frozen limbs seemed unable to absorb it.

Porthos was rapidly divesting himself of his own clothing and adding it, still carrying his body heat, to the nest of fabric in which Aramis was huddled.

"Christ, it's cold," he said, breath steaming. "This is bad, Athos- we're in real trouble, here."

"I'll make a fire as soon as you two are settled," Athos said.

"Everything's damp," Porthos replied grimly.

"I'll _make_ a _fire_," Athos reiterated, biting off each word. "Here, get under the blankets with him. Skin to skin, keep him off of the ground as much as you can."

Aramis was starting to drift, a welcome lassitude stealing over him, promising warmth if he would only close his eyes and sleep. He came back to himself slightly when he was manhandled into a close embrace against solid flesh that was briefly as chilled as his own, but which heated rapidly where they touched. More blankets were piled over them and tucked in snugly. He moaned, half in pleasure at the warmth, and half in pain as sensation started to creep back in his awareness, forcing tired muscles to resume their shivering.

A sudden sense of urgency washed over him as he remembered something.

"N-need to check on the g-girl," he said, struggling against the solid bulk of Porthos with uncoordinated limbs. "She w-was chilled through... have t-to make sure..."

Porthos overpowered him easily, and he fell back, drained.

"The girl's with her family, Aramis; they left. You're the one about to freeze to death."

Aramis tried to clench one hand in the blankets smothering him; was distantly alarmed when he couldn't tell if he'd succeeded or not.

"What if they d-don't know what to d-do? I should've-"

Aramis felt the growl rumble through Porthos' chest as much as he heard it. "_They_ have a nice, warm caravan with a little wood stove belching merry puffs of smoke into the air. Which they _could_ have allowed you to use in return for _saving their daughter_, instead of running off like thieves in the night!"

"They were frightened." That was Athos, voice filtered through the cocoon of wool surrounding him.

"They were _ungrateful worms_!" Porthos' arms tightened around him.

The back-and-forth of the argument was too much for his frozen wits to follow. Aramis mentally lost the thread, and let darkness claim him.

He awoke to the sensation of dry heat toasting the front of his body and flickering light against his eyelids, as Porthos resettled them on a bed of aromatic, warmed pine boughs. His fingers, toes, and ears ached dully, but his muscles were loose and warm.

"You're a miracle worker, Athos," said Porthos, still wrapped around him. "I've never seen anyone make a fire that fast out of wet wood."

"I do my best," came the laconic reply.

Aramis stretched gingerly, and groaned, soaking in the sensation of the blazing fire radiating against his body.

"Athos, my friend," he croaked, coughing to clear his throat. "Have I mentioned, lately, my deep and abiding love for you?"

"It may have come up once or twice," Athos replied.

Aramis yelped as Porthos pinched his arm. "Oi, what about yours truly, then? Freezing my arse off in my underwear for an hour while you steal all my body heat?"

Aramis patted his arm consolingly. "Forgive me, dear Porthos. But you already know of my tender regard for you, whereas Athos needs frequent reminding."

Porthos gave a little shrug, conceding the point. "True, that."

"_Everything_ I say is true. I am a very wise person, after all," Aramis said with great dignity... or at least, with as great a dignity as any man could, while lying naked in another man's arms and stinking of river water. "Athos, come here."

Athos shook his head. "I'm damp through. I'd only chill you again. Besides, someone should keep watch."

Aramis cursed fluently in Spanish- relishing Athos' raised eyebrow and vaguely impressed look as he parsed the words- before switching back to French. "You're damp and chilled because your cloak is currently wrapped around me and I'm using your doublet as a pillow, you fool. And you can keep watch perfectly well from this side of the fire. _Now, come here_."

Athos came.

Aramis flipped the edge of one of the blankets over him, and Porthos tucked it in so that they were all snug again. Athos sighed, little more than a short exhale through his nose.

"Next time," said Aramis, eyeing the pile of wet leather and suede steaming into stiffness next to the fire, "remind me to take off most of my clothes before performing a water rescue."

"Next time," said Porthos, "you can bloody well wait until summer before rescuing someone from a river."

"Next time," said Athos, "I'll do it."

"But then, next time," Aramis asked philosophically, "who'll build the fire?"

**IV.**

It was, Athos mused, decidedly painful to watch Aramis' dealings with his friends and comrades since his return from leave after his injury at Savoy.

The man's head wound might have knit into a fine line of vivid pink scarring- barely visible on his right temple where it disappeared into his hair- but the scars hidden inside that fine skull seemed, on the whole, much slower to heal. One might even remark that all these weeks later, they were festering; unlanced.

Athos considered himself ill-equipped for plumbing the darkness within another man's mind, given that he was demonstrably ill-equipped at plumbing the darkness within his own. For this reason, somewhat to his shame, he had been content to leave the attempts at emotional comfort to Porthos, watching from a slight remove as the big man's advances were rebuffed or ignored. Loyal Porthos, who had scarcely left Aramis' bedside for the first week after his return, and whose continued offers of company and support never wavered in the face of Aramis' studied, unnatural detachment.

For, since Savoy, their cheerful comrade- quick of wit and quicker yet with kindness- was nowhere to be found; replaced with a hollow-eyed stranger, unmoored from the people and events around him during the day, and sloping off to the boudoir of a different woman every night, while seeming to gain no pleasure from any of them.

Going through the motions of life, without actually living. Something with which Athos had, as it happened, some small measure of experience.

And so, after a quiet word with Treville to seek a second opinion on his perception of the matter and intended course of action, Athos found himself seated at one of the rough tables in the courtyard of the garrison, nursing a bottle of wine and stubbornly awake in the darkness of predawn, waiting.

His weary vigil was rewarded when Aramis slipped through the gates, returning from whatever bed he had warmed that night, little more than a shadow himself.

"Good morning," he said evenly, causing Aramis to flinch and whirl at the unexpected sound... a reaction worryingly out of character for the normally unflappable Musketeer.

"Athos," Aramis replied in a studied tone of disinterest, once he had regained himself. "What do you want?"

"I have a message from Treville," Athos said. "He wishes me to inform you that he is removing you from duty for an indeterminate period of time-"

"For what reason?" Aramis interrupted, showing more passion with those three words than he had at any time since the massacre.

"- at my request," Athos finished.

"At _your request_," Aramis parroted, voice low and dangerous.

"In my considered opinion, you are unable to adequately carry out your duties in your present condition. Sending you out on missions right now would put both yourself and your fellow Musketeers at risk."

Aramis stepped into his personal space and hissed, "Well, I can hardly do worse on _that_ front than I did at _Savoy_, now can I."

"Don't be ridiculous," Athos replied evenly. "In Savoy, you fought honourably, even going so far as to injure the leader of the attacking force, despite being injured yourself. Now, you are out of practice, out of condition, and suffering from mental anguish which noticeably affects your ability to function."

Aramis stepped back, drawing his sword.

"Do you think so?" he asked, assuming the _en garde_ position. "Draw your blade, damn you, and we'll see how feeble my skills are."

Athos unsheathed his weapon and faced his friend, parrying the first two experimental thrusts, their blades glimmering in the light of the setting moon.

"The only difference you see in me-" Their swords clashed. "- is the realisation-" Thrust, parry, riposte. "- that sentimentality towards one's fellow soldiers gets everyone _killed_." He punctuated the last word with a lunge, which Athos parried deftly. "That's a lesson that Porthos needs to learn, and that Marsac learned too late." Steel caught steel, and they pressed against each other, seeking the advantage, the physical strain colouring Aramis' next words. "Maybe it's one that you knew all along."

Aramis shoved Athos hard, and he spun back and to the right with an ease his opponent did not expect, leaving the other man a half-step off balance.

"I'm so gratified to hear that you've discovered the secret of effective soldiering," Athos said, sweeping the pommel of his weapon into Aramis' left shoulder and causing him to stumble to one knee. He stepped on Aramis' blade, wrenching the grip from his hand, and his own sword edge swished through the air, coming to a halt a bare inch from the back of Aramis' neck. "What a pity you won't get a chance to put it into practise, since you're dead now."

"Well, it's about _fucking_ time." The snarl that accompanied the words was an expression that Athos never wanted to see again on Aramis' kind features. "I was slated to die six weeks ago, you realise."

The catch in Athos' chest at the words was enough to distract him as Aramis swung sharp knuckles up into the cluster of nerves in the elbow of his sword arm, and his own weapon went flying. In a heartbeat, Aramis was upon him; the two of them wrestling in the dirt of the courtyard.

Athos forced himself not to flinch back from his friend's face as it was illuminated by the silver moonlight- he had the look of a man possessed. Athos was hard-pressed against the rage and desperation of his friend's attack; felt the sting of skin scraped against the cobbles on his cheek, and the bruise from a closed fist blossoming over his ribs.

Finally, with a grunt, he pinned his writhing opponent in an awkward hold- Aramis' back to his front, his left arm holding Aramis' left wrist twisted up behind him, right arm firmly around the other man's windpipe, one leg trapping both of Aramis' legs as they lay on their sides.

"Enough," Athos growled. "Yield the fight, Aramis."

Aramis struggled on for long seconds before going limp, sucking in high-pitched, wheezing breaths.

"This stops tonight," Athos continued, not relinquishing his hold. "You may be content to linger as a walking corpse, but a walking corpse cannot be a musketeer. _What is our motto_, Aramis? Say it to me aloud."

Aramis only shook his head, resuming his struggles, albeit weakly. Athos transferred his grip from the other man's throat to his hair, forcing his head back painfully.

"_Say it!_" he shouted.

"All f-for one..." Aramis managed in a hoarse, broken voice.

"... and one for all," Athos finished in a more normal tone. "In Savoy, you were the one. Any one of your comrades would have been glad to lay down their lives for you, so that you might live. Had circumstances been different, you would have given your life to save the others without hesitation, in your turn. But that was not to be."

Aramis' breath hitched in a dry sob, but Athos continued, relentless. "Will you now dishonour their sacrifice by living half a life, when they offered you a full one?"

"I couldn't face... it happening again," Aramis gasped. "So many friends... brothers-in-arms... gone between one hour and the next, and I could do nothing! I thought if... if..."

"You thought if you felt no love for your fellows, then their loss could not harm you. And, tell me, has your artificial withdrawal from the world erased the love you feel for your brothers? Will you now watch, unmoved, if Porthos is run through or I am shot?"

Tears were leaking from Aramis' eyes as he answered. "No. No, God have mercy on me... _no_. It has changed nothing, except to make everyone around me miserable. All I can do is to thank Heaven that you and Porthos were not there that day."

Athos released his painful grip on the other man, lifting them both from their prone position and steadying Aramis with an arm around his chest from behind.

"And yet, I wish we had been," he said, tightening the embrace and resting his chin on the other man's shoulder as Aramis began to weep in earnest. "For _we_ would not have left you alone."

**V.**

"You do realise that you're going to have to tell us about this woman?" Aramis asked, having lingered to intercept Athos after the King and Queen's joyful reunion; after Athos' veiled threats to the Cardinal. "Or at least, you're going to have to tell Treville."

"Yes, no doubt my sordid past shall become an open book," Athos said without inflection, sweeping past Aramis in clear dismissal.

Aramis grasped him by the elbow, swinging the older man around to face him. Athos glared, freeing his arm with a sharp jerk when the other man showed no sign of releasing him, and stepping forward into Aramis' space. His friend stood firm, neither backing down, nor rising to the unspoken challenge.

"You wear her locket," he said simply, and Athos could not repress his surprised intake of breath; felt his hand move abortively to the chain around his neck as Aramis continued. "Porthos and I have both seen it often enough after you've passed out from drink while clutching it."

Athos felt the blood drain from his face. His voice, when it emerged, was like sandpaper.

"You know already that I was the Comte de la Fère. You must have heard the stories."

"Of course I heard the stories. It was quite a scandal at the time," Aramis replied.

"Then there is little more to say."

Aramis frowned. "On the contrary, there's clearly quite a bit more to say. Stories are only stories, after all, and parts of this one seem thoroughly contradictory."

"It doesn't matter," Athos said, voice flat even though desperation was crawling into his belly at the thought of his comrades' disgust, once they knew the truth of his mistakes and his weakness. "_None of it matters_."

"Then why are you trembling?" Aramis asked.

As if suddenly recalled to his body from some other realm, Athos realised that he was, in fact, shaking like a small child trapped outside in the cold rain. When he opened his mouth to reply, no sound emerged. Aramis lifted warm hands to cup the clammy flesh of his face, and he twisted his head to avoid meeting the concerned brown eyes in front of him, unable to bear what he knew he would see there.

"Perhaps you believe that our love for you is conditional," said Aramis. "That it depends on you having sprung up from the ground, fully formed as a Musketeer, with a blank scroll of parchment stretching behind you instead of a past. Perhaps you think that the rest of us have no bitter secrets; that I, for instance, have not- a mere _two days ago_\- brought death to a woman whose life I had already ruined, when she was but sixteen years of age.

"Will you now forsake me, knowing that as a lad, I made a young girl pregnant and drove her into a nunnery, only to lead assassins to her doorstep to kill her with a musket ball through the heart, years later?"

_The sister in the cellar. The one over whom he was weeping,_ Athos thought, shaking his head tightly in negation. He grasped Aramis' sleeve with one hand, keeping his eyes closed.

"No? Then trust us with your past, as we trust you," Aramis said.

"Once," Athos choked out. "I can only tell it once. Don't force me to rehash it over and over."

"As you wish," Aramis said. He closed the remaining distance between them until his forehead touched Athos'. "Courage, brother. All will be well. You'll see."

"Please leave me," Athos said, aware on some level that he was begging, but unable to force the words into the shape of an order.

"If that is what you need," Aramis agreed readily. The forehead resting against his own was replaced by a brush of dry lips in a brief benediction. "But not for long, and not far. Take a moment or two, and we'll go to others together."

The hands cradling his face retreated, and measured boot heels echoed away down the corridor. Still shivering, Athos slid down the marble column against which he'd been standing, and did not weep.

**... and the one time Athos made his own feelings clear.**

By unspoken agreement, they eventually fetched up at Aramis' apartments after leaving the announcement of the Queen's pregnancy, in the understanding that- while the concept of honour might be enough to be going on with in the absence of love, glory, or money- a cheery fire and good company after a deeply trying day also had much to recommend it.

The tremors in Athos' hands had started more than an hour ago, and progressed to the point that he could no longer hide them from Aramis' practised eye. A few moments later, a cup of watered wine was placed perfunctorily in front of his person.

"Drink," Aramis said. "Not even your considerable will can allow a man to go from hard drinking on a nightly basis to complete abstinence with no steps in between, my friend. You must ease off gradually, or you risk serious illness."

D'Artagnan, who had up until this point been adrift in morose thoughts of his own lost lady love, roused himself.

"He's right, you know," the lad said, looking up from his position on the floor, propped against the bed. "My uncle tried to stop after his wife and baby daughter died. He came to stay with us so he'd have someone to keep him away from the bottle, and the second night, he started to have fits. He thought his daughter was in the room with him, and tried to fight us whenever we touched him. We almost lost him."

"I've seen it, too," Porthos added. "Don't want to see it again."

"None of us do," Aramis said. "Particularly when it's you, brother."

Athos stared at the cup, feeling the pull... the desire to blunt the edges of his mind, and the sick knowledge that what was on offer would not be enough to do the job properly. He reached for the cup anyway, powerless, hands shaking too badly to raise it to his lips until Aramis' fingers closed over his, steadying it.

"I hate this," he said evenly, once the cup was safely resting on the table again.

"And yet," Aramis replied, "it is far from the most difficult thing that you have ever done."

Athos thought of a hangman's rope, the point of a sword pressed between pale breasts, and closed his eyes.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat softly, looking down at the floor when Athos roused himself enough to turn and gaze at him questioningly.

"When I was alone with Milady, she told me that your brother tried to force her... that she killed him in self-defence. I don't know if it was a lie," he finished quietly.

In other circumstances, to make such an assertion anywhere but privately would be an unpardonable breach of confidence, but Athos had no secrets left in him, and could raise no ire over it. Porthos and Aramis had seen the worst of Athos' soul, and had not quailed. There was something almost freeing about baring all in front of them; like running through a wall of flames and emerging through to the other side lighter... all artifice burned away.

"She claimed it at the time, as well," Athos said, his voice hollow. "I didn't want to believe it of my Thomas... my gentle little brother. I still don't. Not when his claims about her background- all of her other lies- were correct. And yet... _and yet_. How can the truth ever be known, now? I have thought of little else, these past weeks. I was not speaking falsely when I said that I made her what she is. Whatever she has done rests as much on my shoulders as hers. I am as guilty as she."

"You have not committed her countless murders, Athos," Aramis replied with some heat.

"Have I not?" Athos answered in a tired voice. "How many men have I sent to their maker with sword and pistol, after all?"

"In the service of the King," Porthos said firmly. "It's different."

"While her killings were in service of the Cardinal. How different is it, really?" Athos asked.

"Well, for one, the Cardinal is a conniving, rat-faced, power-hungry bastard," Porthos said, "while the King-"

"You might want to give some thought to the way that sentence is going to end," Aramis interrupted, defusing the tension as adroitly as he always seemed to do.

Porthos only grunted in disgust.

"Is that why you let her go?" d'Artagnan asked into the ensuing silence. "You said it was to save yourself, as much as her."

"Perhaps," Athos said after a few moments. "I fear she is correct that there will be no peace for either of us until we both are dead. Nor, I think, would one of us survive long after the death of the other. Had I killed her, or sent her once again to the hangman's noose-" he broke off, surprised by the tremor in his own voice, but not by Aramis' gentle hand tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, or Porthos' firm grip his shoulder.

"Let us just say," he continued hoarsely, letting his gaze flicker over his two friends before moving it to the Gascon boy, including him in the words, "that I am not yet ready to leave behind my brothers who love me, and whom I love in return... even if it means that I will have to leave peace for a different time and place."

_fin_


End file.
